Work Text:
It all starts like this:
Jeremy comes home during the Labor Day holiday, well into the afternoon, and the smell of freshly baked bread assaults his senses so thoroughly he’s transported back to afternoons when his grandmother took over the kitchen and baked for him and his siblings. He still remembers her gentle smile vividly as she explained to them how bread was made, the soft tone of her voice patiently repeating instructions over and over again. Jeremy was too little then to remember the steps now, and the resulting grief settling behind his chest feels all-consuming—so heavy he has to mind his steps on the way to the kitchen, lest he trips over himself while distracted by his thoughts.
In the kitchen, he sees Jean.
Jean is leaning carefully against the kitchen counter, reading the book of French recipes Cat got him last week. He reads it with such enthusiasm and concentration Jeremy can’t help but smile fondly.
Although Jeremy makes no sound to announce his presence, Jean turns to look at him only seconds later.
“Jeremy,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You are late.”
Jeremy fights against the flush that wants to take over his face and instead grins at him, teeth gleaming and eyes crinkling. “Yeah! Sorry about that. I took a detour on the way.”
Jean says nothing, but his eyes are still narrowed. He turns back to peer over the book and closes it after reading a few words.
“Cat and I made bread. It is not as hot as it would have been if you were to arrive on time, but it is still warm if you wish to taste it.”
Jean points to the baking sheet on top of the stove, and the golden loaves waiting for him warm his heart in ways he hasn't felt in years. He takes one loaf in hand and is delighted to hear the crunch. Looking up in awe, Jeremy beams at Jean, but Jean glances away.
Fighting against the hurt in his chest, Jeremy splits the loaf in two and brings it to his nose, smelling the earthiness of the yeast and the slightly sweet aroma exuding from the crust. It smells so good Jeremy almost moans, but he contents himself with a pleased sigh as he takes a large bite.
The freshness of the bread combined with the sweet and slightly sour flavour of the crumbs melts in his mouth and makes it impossible not to groan. Jean finally risks looking at him again, and Jeremy smiles as he takes another bite.
“This is incredible!” Jeremy says, mouth full. Jean scrunches his nose in slight disgust but says nothing. Jeremy can only chuckle, swallowing his bite before continuing. “Nan used to bake bread, too…” he sighs, avoiding Jean’s gaze and focusing instead on the old, patterned dishcloth Cat brought from her aunt’s house. He hasn’t talked about his grandmother in who knows how long—probably years—but the grief and the nostalgia lodged in his throat, as well as the warm fragrance of freshly baked bread, loosens his tongue and lowers his shields. “She wasn’t the best at it, I don’t think, but she always let me help her. I never did anything important, but she always acted like it made all the difference,” he chuckles. A memory flashes behind his eyelids, and before he knows it, Jeremy is telling Jean about a handful of different recipes they tried.
“And then! Oh my god,” Jeremy laughs, gesturing wildly with the loaf still in hand while he recounts another one of their kitchen adventures. “There was this one time that we spilled flour everywhere. My mother was furious, of course, but Nan convinced her not to ground me, and… and then…” he trails off, reality hitting and dissolving the smile off of his face. Nan hadn’t been able to persuade his mother for long. The thought is so sobering and disturbing Jeremy gets lost in his head, trapped in troubling memories. It’s Jean’s firm voice that rescues Jeremy from his own mind.
“You miss her,” he says, the certainty in his tone cracking something vital inside Jeremy, making him feel vulnerable and exposed. Jeremy smiles again, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah. More than anything,” he whispers. Jean stares at him, expression neutral, and Jeremy stares back shamelessly, endeared by the flour patch on Jean’s sleeves.
“Tell me about your favourite recipe,” Jean asks, and although his tone is assertive, Jeremy knows this is nothing more than a request. Jeremy could say no if he wanted to, but… even though it hurts, he loved his grandmother. He still loves her. Talking about her brings him a sense of peace he hasn’t felt in years, so Jeremy swallows the grief, and tells Jean about her.
Unknowingly to Jeremy, too distracted by his own bittersweet memories, Jean takes notes.
2.
By the time the weekend rolls around, so many things have happened Jeremy has mostly forgotten about his talk with Jean—Zane’s violence, Jean’s collapse, and the Trojans victory take up most of his mind space. He sleeps over from Saturday to Sunday, unwilling to go back to his family’s house after what happened to Jean. He sleeps like a baby after so many nights depriving himself of a full night’s sleep, but even then, he still wakes up way too early for his own tastes, the sun barely out. He twirls around the bed, searching for Jean, only to realize Jean isn’t in the room anymore. Jeremy sits up slowly, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He gets out of bed and goes directly to the kitchen, where he can already smell coffee.
When he reaches the kitchen, however, he stops in his tracks, shocked by what he witnesses.
Jean is by the stove, a bowl of half-empty batter to his right, and a huge pile of pancakes to his left. Jeremy is so flabbergasted it takes three more pancakes being placed on top of the pile for him to move from the kitchen door and greet Jean.
“Hi, good morning…” Jeremy says, slightly hesitant still. Jean just hums back at him, focused on the task at hand. “…You’re making pancakes?” Jeremy asks—even though he can clearly see that he is—because he really needs to confirm he isn’t going crazy.
Jean looks away from the pan, completely unimpressed by the question, and answers, “No.”
Jeremy laughs harder than he probably should, with Cat and Laila still asleep, but he can’t help it. Jean returns to the stove and flips a pancake with a flick of his wrist, spatula forgotten by his side. Jeremy’s mouth becomes extremely dry, impressed by how attractive the trick is. He swallows down hard, and glances at the pancakes instead.
“Is it a special occasion or something? Are we celebrating our first victory?”
Jean shakes his head. “No.”
“…then why are you making them?” Jeremy asks, coming closer to Jean. He peers at the pan, the perfect shade of golden brown appearing on the other side of the pancake as Jean flicks his wrist.
Jean spins around to study him, their eyes locked together before he says, “You said they were your favourite.”
It takes a few seconds to make sense of what he’s saying, but then Jeremy remembers the consuming grief in his chest and intense grey eyes staring through his soul and “Tell me about your favourite recipe”, and Jeremy forgets how to breathe.
The blush that takes over his face is so all-consuming and sudden that he can feel his ears burn bright red. Jeremy averts his eyes and goes back to inspecting the pancakes. He talked about this with Jean last week. Jeremy told him all about the weekends when Nan woke him up super early so they could head to the kitchen without risking his mother’s ire—how they made french toast, grilled cheese, waffles, but his favourites were always pancakes.
That Jean not only remembered what Jeremy shared with him but also went out of his way to learn the recipe and prepare it for him makes Jeremy feel invincible. His heart thrums painfully in his chest, and the urge he has to reach for Jean and touch—close the distance, trade heat, brush his fingers against Jean’s skin—pulls at him with such overwhelming force he has to take a step back and clasp his hands behind his back.
Jean furrows his brow but says nothing. He turns back to the pan and places the new pancake onto the pile, taking the bowl of batter and creating a perfect circle on the still-hot pan.
Before Jean has another chance to ask Jeremy about the sudden distance, Jeremy starts talking, “Thank you, Jean,” he says, smiling softly at Jean. “You didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it,” he finishes, fondness inevitably slipping into his voice.
“…I wanted to do it,” Jean mumbles, voice so quiet Jeremy almost doesn’t catch it. Jeremy looks up and locks eyes with Jean again, the grey in his gaze so intense he feels something passing between them without any need for words. Jeremy feels helpless—addicted to Jean’s eyes on him, craving a kiss that is not his to take—and has to distract himself by averting his gaze and talking.
“Is this a special recipe? Are you using the usual ingredients or are you substituting some of them to make the pancakes healthier?”
The question works as intended, as Jean scrunches his nose and returns his attention to the pan. “There are no substitutions that could save this abomination,” he says fiercely, and Jeremy’s taken so off guard that a laugh bursts out of his mouth without him meaning to. “There is more sugar in here than your entire daily intake, and Cat says you have to put syrup on top to have an ‘authentic pancake experience’, whatever that means. The only ingredient I changed was the flour. I added protein to keep your diet less unbalanced. Other than that I followed the despicable recipe in the book,” he continues, pointing to the open recipe book on the kitchen counter. It’s not the same book as last week, based on the size and the colour, but Jeremy can’t see the title from here.
“You know, if you find it so despicable, you could have changed the recipe or done something else,” Jeremy retorts, amused.
But Jean scoffs, and says, “I am not doing them for me, Jeremy. They are for you, and if you like clogging your veins with sugar, I will allow it once in a while. Your grandmother did not seem to have a problem with it.”
Jeremy’s eyes widen in surprise, his heart quickening in his chest. Jean always goes on and on about Laila and her relentless bubble tea obsession, insisting it’s too unhealthy, too sugary, too indulgent. And now he’s okay with Jeremy indulging his sweet tooth? Because it makes him happy? Because it reminds him of his Nan? The thought makes him dizzy with emotion. He squeezes his eyes shut, drawing in a deep, shaky breath to steady himself. He covers his face with trembling hands, his voice muffled and strained as he mumbles through gritted teeth, “You’re killing me here, Jean.”
When Jeremy feels stable enough to face the world again without risking foolish things like disrespecting Jean’s boundaries, he notices the confused frown on Jean's face.
“I could not hear you,” Jean says, and Jeremy thanks God for that. He flicks his wrist, dismissing his worries.
“It was nothing, I was thanking you.”
Jean hums noncommittally, doubtful still, but he turns back to the stove and continues with the pancakes. Eventually, he says, “Take a plate and serve yourself while they are still warm. I will finish with the rest of the batter and call Cat and Laila.”
“Okie-dokie,” Jeremy agrees, taking four plates from the cupboard and placing them on the counter. Jean finishes the last pancake and turns the stove off, going for Cat and Laila’s bedroom. Jeremy divides the pile into three and places five pancakes into each plate, debating if he should give himself or the girls more pancakes, and settling on putting the extra two on Jean’s plate in case he wants to try them. He takes the plates to the table and goes back to the kitchen to search for the syrup he didn’t know they had, but sure enough, he finds a small, sealed bottle of maple syrup next to the book Jean was reading. Curious, Jeremy closes the book and looks at the cover, where he sees colourful drawings and reads Grandma’s Recipes in big letters.
Jeremy stops breathing, feeling so off balance he has to grip the kitchen counter to maintain himself on his feet. His eyes fill up with tears, and the fondness that takes over his brain is strong enough to make him feel faint. Jean bought this book. He bought this book for Jeremy. He went to a bookstore of his own free volition and bought a book called Grandma’s Recipes because Jeremy misses his grandma.
Gently, he traces the letters, throat closing more and more with every passing second. It’s no surprise when he feels a presence by his side, and a second later Laila rests her head on his shoulder, looking at the book.
“He’s something else, isn’t he?” she whispers, and Jeremy can do nothing but chuckle, helpless.
“I’m not strong enough for this.”
Laila hums, and takes his hand in hers, pulling him off the counter. “Come on, it’s time to eat.”
So they go.
Jeremy isn’t able to convince Jean to eat the two pancakes he left for him, but Cat holds her fork in front of his face, stubborn enough to outlast Jean, and forces him to take a bite.
“Horrendous,” Jean says. “Too sweet,” he continues, but Jeremy can see the twitch in his lips when Cat squawks in outrage.
That, alone, makes his whole day.
3.
Jean is watching an Exy game on the TV in anticipation of their game against the Utes on Friday while Jeremy switches between his LSAT guide and his French book. It doesn’t take long at all for Jeremy to get fed up and push them both away from him, switching his position on the couch. He stares at Jean instead, delighted by the way Jean narrates the game. His insights are so thoughtful and constructive that Jeremy can’t help but be impressed, but he instead finds himself distracted by the image in front of him.
Jeremy takes in every detail. He notices the unequal waves of Jean’s curly dark hair, the pale but intense grey of his eyes staring attentively at the TV, the bump in his crooked nose, the faint bruising still colouring Jean’s face, the pale tone of his skin, the pinkish tint of his plump lips, and Jeremy has to force himself to avert his gaze, feeling a flush burning his cheeks. He clears his throat, and repositions himself on the couch again, sensing Jean’s eyes on the back of his head.
“Jeremy,” Jean calls, and Jeremy looks at him.
“Yeah?”
“You are fidgeting,” he accuses Jeremy, but the way Jean says ‘fidgeting’ in his heavy French accent makes Jeremy smile.
“Sorry, I can't concentrate. I tried learning some French but this part is mostly pronunciation, so it’s harder to understand it by reading.”
Jean keeps looking at him, and Jeremy stares back shamelessly. He could ask Jean to explain to him the difference between all these homographs and homophones, but the language reminds him of something he’s been meaning to ask.
“By the way…” he starts, uncertain, “did you have a favourite food growing up? In Marseille, I mean,” Jeremy specifies, but he feels a pang of hesitation as he notices the guarded look flickering across Jean’s face. “I’ve just… I've been thinking about it, that’s all. I told you about Nan and you made me pancakes, and I was curious about what you used to enjoy eating as a kid,” Jeremy finishes, his voice trailing off uncertainly.
Jean doesn’t say anything, he just stares straight ahead, eyes going empty and losing their spark. Just as Jeremy is preparing to retract the question, sensing he may have crossed a line, Jean finally shifts his gaze back to him.
“I… did not cook. My mother was responsible for everything we ate. I did not have any particular preference for any type of food,” he says, forcefully stopping himself from saying anything else, but something soft and vulnerable passes through his face, and he continues anyway, “I remember hating the onions, but I always ate them. Elodie was not the biggest fan of them, either, so I stole them from her plate and pretended they were my favourite,” he confesses, so devastatingly beautiful Jeremy has to look away from the softness reflected in his eyes to keep himself in check.
“Do you still hate them? The onions?” Jeremy asks.
Jean hums, and takes a few seconds to think before concluding, “I do not feel anything particularly strong about onions. I got used to eating them at the Nest.”
Jeremy nods. “I think Cat should teach you how to make French Onion Soup. Her recipe is divine. I bet even Elodie might have liked it,” Jeremy says, and regrets it immediately when he sees the cloudiness taking over pale grey eyes.
“Perhaps,” Jean whispers, lost in thought.
Jeremy doesn’t like seeing him like that at all. In a sudden burst of determination, he gets up and takes Jean’s wrist, hauling him off the couch with him. “Come on, it’s almost dinner time anyway. We can ask for Cat’s help.”
“Jeremy, you do not need to make excuses if you want to eat French Onion Soup. You only need to ask, and I will make it for you.”
Jeremy huffs. If Jean’s face wasn’t so neutral, he’d say he might be joking. “Is that your version of a blank check? Offering to cook me whatever I want? Weren’t you the one that said it was a dangerous thing to offer?” he asks, amused.
But Jean looks at him, serious and determined, and responds, “Try me. I can afford it.”
Jeremy stares at him, brown locked onto grey, and devotion hits him so hard in the chest the shockwaves travel through his body and awaken the butterflies in his stomach. They escape and flutter all over him, dancing beneath his skin and raising his hair wherever they go, shivers rocking him from his head to the tip of his toes. Jeremy releases Jean’s wrist, afraid he’ll pull him closer, and is about to say something, anything, please, when Cat interrupts them.
“Jean! I was wondering if you wanted to help out with dinner,” Cat says, and Jeremy is the first to look away from Jean, overwhelmed by intense grey. “I’m still not completely sure about what we should make, but I was looking around and we have ingredients for Chicken Alfredo, or maybe–“
“Jeremy wants French Onion Soup,” he interrupts Cat. “Do we have ingredients for that?”
Cat is stunned for a few seconds, then slowly nods. “We should…” she says, looking between the two of them curiously, but shrugging when neither of them says anything. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She takes Jean’s hand and leaves for the kitchen, and Jeremy is finally left alone to collect himself and his thoughts. He holds his right fist against his heart, feeling how strong his heartbeat thrums around his chest, and takes several deep, shaky breaths, collecting every single butterfly scattered across his skin and locking them away in the depths of his stomach.
Jean will be the death of him.
When he feels less unstable in his own two feet, he follows them to the kitchen and watches them work together. Cat hands Jean a few big onions for him to cut while she works on the beef stock, dispersing a rich aroma through the air, but Jeremy can only focus on Jean, watching devoutly as he starts preparing the onions.
Jean washes them thoroughly, cutting the ends and peeling them carefully before beginning to slice them thinly. It doesn’t take long for him to start sniffing, nose wrinkling. He stops cutting, setting the knife down with an exasperated huff.
“Putain d’oignon,” he curses in vicious French, rubbing his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt, careful not to touch his eyes with his fingers, and all Jeremy can do is laugh softly. Jean, undeterred, continues to cut them, but tears start falling relentlessly from his eyes. It should make Jeremy’s chest tighten, seeing Jean cry, but Jean looks so pissed off about the situation he's in that Jeremy has no choice but to laugh harder, delighted by his furrowed brow and the continuous sniffing.
Once Jean finally finishes, his eyes red and glistening with tears, he turns to Jeremy. “New rule,” Jean declares, “you cannot ask me for recipes that involve onions.”
Jeremy smiles fondly at him. “Deal.”
When they sit at the table to eat it, Jeremy watches Jean attentively as he tries the soup for the first time. Jean has no outward reaction, so Jeremy asks, “Do you like it?”
Jean thinks for a minute, and nods. He stares at the soup, and quietly, as if afraid to profess a secret, he whispers, “It’s sweet. Elodie would have loved it.”
Jeremy smiles—big big big, all teeth, his heart racing too fast and hard in his chest—and feels like the happiest man in the world.
Then the game with the Utes happens, and everything goes up in flames.
It's the last time they cook together in a while.
4.
Their home burns down, and with it goes all the freedom Jeremy had painstakingly conquered throughout the years. It’s from the family house to school, from school to court, from court directly back to the house. No lenience, no deviation. Except, Jeremy still sidesteps his mother’s authority.
He stays in the apartment with Cat, Laila, Jean and Jab for as long as he can, and drives back to the house a little later each day. He wakes up as early as his body lets him, eager to get out of his family’s house, and by the time October rolls around he’s getting so little sleep he’s not sure how he’s still functioning. Jeremy’s been avoiding mirrors lately, afraid to see the dark circles under his eyes, but the worried glances William sends his way and the harsh warnings in Laila’s voice are enough to know that it isn’t a pretty sight.
So it’s a surprise to no one other than maybe himself when he wakes up feeling like a truck ran over him.
His throat is sore, his body hurts everywhere, and he’s so cold and sweaty that his own shivering jolts him awake. The faint light coming from the window is like daggers digging into his brain, and he has to close his eyes and collect himself and all his strength before trying to face the world again.
His body screams bloody murder at him for every tiny movement he makes, and his head throbs harder and harder for each step he takes, but he manages to reach the bathroom mostly alright, immediately taking a painkiller. He sends a message to Cat and Laila saying he’ll be late and won’t be able to pick them up today, and starts getting ready for school. He goes slower than usual, having to fight the overwhelming need to lay down again and sleep off the sickness before the painkiller hits. He drives to school and almost falls asleep twice while waiting for the green traffic light, jolted awake by the horns of the cars behind him. If Laila saw him she’d never forgive him, but Jeremy keeps going, determined to get to school in—mostly—one piece.
When Rhemann catches a glimpse of him, he scowls and forbids Jeremy from setting foot in the gym and the court today, and tells him to go see the nurse. Jeremy hums his agreement, but when he gets out of the gym, he goes directly to his car to take a nap since he already took a painkiller earlier today. He takes advantage of Rhemann’s restriction and uses the gym hours to sleep. He wakes up a few hours after the training ended, feverish and delusional, and curses when he realizes he skipped lunch. He isn’t hungry, necessarily, but Cat will be so mad that he missed lunch with them that he shudders in anticipated dread.
Jeremy checks the dozens of messages the floozies have left in his phone and the few scattering warnings Cat and Laila sent his way, and he writes a generic text for everyone saying he’s a bit under the weather today but should be fine come tomorrow. The responses come in immediately, but Jeremy sighs and ignores the incessant noise coming from his phone, deciding to just go to class and get it over with already.
Classes pass by in a feverish haze, and an ugly cough has permanently lodged itself into his lungs by the time he’s finished with his second class. He goes to the court purely because he has nothing else to do, and going back to the house seems unfathomable even when deliriously sick. When Rhemann sees him this time, however, he personally drops Jeremy off at the nurses’ ward, not leaving his side until Davis gives him medication and a blanket.
Jeremy sits out of practice again, waiting by the locker rooms with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, napping on and off after the painkillers hit. His head is still a hazy mess when he feels a hand in his chin, directing his head up. Jean is there, looking down at him with furrowed brows and tight lips. If his wet hair is any indication, he just finished his shower.
“Hey…” Jeremy says, voice so rough and hoarse that even Jeremy is surprised. He tries smiling, but the light around them is still too painful to manage anything even slightly truthful.
“Jeremy,” Jean says, and his name alone makes Jeremy feel better than any medication ever could. “You are sick.”
There’s so much incredulity and outrage laced in Jean’s voice that a laugh bursts out of Jeremy, but he goes from laughing to coughing out his lungs in a matter of seconds. Jean gasps, releasing his grip on Jeremy’s chin, but instead of moving away like Jeremy thought he would, he brings his hand to Jeremy’s forehead. The coldness of Jean’s hand is so striking against his warm skin Jeremy can’t help but shiver violently, relieved by the touch.
“What are you doing here? Your skin is on fire. You should be in bed,” Jean admonishes, his voice firm but entwined with worry. Jean lets go of his forehead and turns away, ready to leave, but in a surge of panic, Jeremy reaches for him and grasps his sleeve.
“N-No, Jean, wait,” he says, coughing from the dryness in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice weak, barely a breath. “Please don’t go.”
Jean pauses, his gray eyes locking onto Jeremy’s with an intensity that feels almost physical. After a beat, he takes hold of Jeremy’s wrist in his shirt and makes him release him. Jeremy's heart tightens, and he has to close his eyes to conceal how hurt he is from the blatant rejection. But a heartbeat later, he feels Jean’s fingers once more—now grasping his chin, the touch firm and almost possessive. When Jeremy finally opens his eyes, the world narrows until all he sees is the stormy gray of Jean’s gaze, a whirlwind of concern and frustration swirling just beneath the surface.
“I am not leaving you, Jeremy. I will go speak with Cat and Laila and come back here.”
Slowly, Jeremy relaxes. “Okay.”
Jean lingers for a moment longer, a swirl of emotions flickering in his eyes, but eventually, he releases him and makes his way toward the locker room. When he comes back, Cat and Laila trail alongside him, worried expressions mirrored on all three faces.
Cat and Laila immediately round him and start fussing over him. Laila feels his forehead while Cat holds his hands, both asking how he’s feeling and why he came to school at all if he’s this sick, but Jeremy only shrugs. He coughs before whispering, “I didn’t want to stay there.”
Laila’s face goes inexpressive so fast Jeremy gets whiplash.
Cat sees the change and starts holding Laila instead, letting go of Jeremy’s hands. “Cody is giving us a lift. Come with us.”
Jeremy starts protesting, “Cat, you know I can’t stay at the–,” but Laila interrupts him.
“Give me your phone, and I’ll talk to her.”
“Laila–“
“Jeremy, you cannot drive like this,” she says, voice firm and unforgiving. “You shouldn’t have driven here in the first place,” she admonishes, and Jeremy has no answer to that. He knows he shouldn’t have, but he also couldn’t have stayed there, so he remains silent. He sighs, and gives her his phone. Laila nods, taking the phone from his hand. “I’ll be right back,” she announces, and goes who knows where to talk to his mother. Jeremy shudders just imagining how the conversation will go.
Once Laila is out of sight, Cat takes his hands again. “It’ll be okay,” she says, but Jeremy knows it won’t.
Jeremy looks at Jean instead. Jean stays a safe distance away from them, but his eyes haven’t left Jeremy since they got back. Jeremy feels them like a weight against his skin, and he shivers again. Cat mistakes it for him being cold and tightens the blanket around his shoulders, and Jeremy doesn’t bother to correct her.
When Laila comes back, her expression is unreadable. She hands Jeremy his phone and says stiffly, “You can stay tonight.”
Tonight. Only tonight. Jeremy knows there’ll be consequences for this—there always are—but he can’t help but feel grateful.
He tries speaking, but his throat is too dry to manage anything. He coughs and clears his throat. “Thank you,” he mumbles, voice weak and breaking, but Laila nods at him.
“Come on,” Cat says, gently pulling his hands. Jeremy gets up slowly, and Jean comes to his side so quickly to support Jeremy’s weight Jeremy feels a bit faint. Jean’s hand against his waist is no help at all in making him feel less lightheaded, but they eventually reach the parking lot where Cody waits for them.
“You okay, Cap?” Cody asks, worried.
Jeremy tries smiling, but he’s not sure he manages it. Before he can say that he’s fine, however, Cat, Laila and Jean say “No,” in unison.
It’s almost enough to make Jeremy laugh, but the sunlight still cuts through his brain like knives, so he only shrugs, slightly pained.
“Got it,” Cody responds, and the drive to the apartment is mostly silent, save for Laila’s directions.
When they get there, Jean returns to his side. Jean helps him through the stairs while Cat and Laila go ahead and get the apartment ready for them, holding Jab so he doesn’t run off when he sees Jeremy.
Jean closes the door once they go through it, and Jeremy reaches for Jabberwocky’s ears, caressing them gently. “Salut, Jab.”
Jab licks his hand, but before Jeremy can say anything else, Jean brings him to his bedroom.
“Lay down,” he orders, and Jeremy had little choice but to obey, tired from the walk, even as minimal effort as it was.
He lays down, closes his eyes, and is out like a light as soon as Jean drapes a blanket over him.
When Jeremy opens his eyes again, there’s no sunlight coming from the window. His body still hurts, his throat is still sore, his head’s still imploding within itself, but he feels immediately calmer, knowing he’s in Jean’s room. He looks around, Jean nowhere in sight, and takes in the sporadic decoration around the place. It’s pretty empty, save for the bed and the dresser, and there’s a new postcard glued to the wall, sent by Kevin a few days ago. Jeremy knows Laila bought Jean a small frame with a dog eerily similar to Jabberwocky in honour of his new fatherhood status, but Jeremy can’t find it anywhere. Jean probably hid it somewhere. Jeremy wouldn’t be surprised if he found it under the bed.
Slowly, ignoring the soreness in his muscles, Jeremy sits up on the bed, wondering if he should get up and look for Jean, but it takes mere moments before Jean enters the room again, holding a steaming bowl and a glass of water.
Jean stops in his tracks when he sees that Jeremy is awake.
“Hey,” Jeremy calls, voice still broken and hoarse. Jean hums and continues walking, placing the bowl and the cup in the dresser and going out again. He comes back a moment later holding a chair, setting it down close to the bed. He sits down and hands the bowl to Jeremy.
“Eat,” he orders, and Jeremy looks down at the bowl he’s holding. Jeremy can’t see much with the room half-lit by the hallway lights, but he knows there are vegetables and some kind of meat floating in clear broth. It’s soup, most likely. Jeremy locks eyes with Jean again.
“What is it?” he asks, just to be sure, but he holds the spoon close to his mouth, blowing away the steam while he waits for Jean’s answer.
“Chicken noodle soup,” Jean responds, and Jeremy nods before slurping the spoonful. Jeremy’s eyes widen in surprised delight.
“This is delicious!” he exclaims. He immediately scoops another spoonful, blowing away the steam again before putting it back into his mouth, and this time he can’t help but groan. The broth is light but extremely savoury and rich, the flavours complex and deep. The vegetable chunks are small and easily chewable, and the meat is soft and tender, all the textures complement each other beautifully. A minute or two later, delighted by the flavours, Jeremy chews on a texture that makes him pause.
Looking up, he catches Jean's gaze, who, he notices, has been watching him intently since the first bite. A warm blush creeps up his chest, and he quickly clears his throat.
“There’re onions in this,” Jeremy says, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Jean stays silent, but eventually, he nods.
Jeremy struggles to find his breath, the weight of the moment settling in. “Jean, you said–“
“I know what I said,” Jean interjects, “but onions are good for your immune system.”
“But–“
“Jeremy, eat the soup. I made it for you because I wanted to.”
Jeremy’s heart soars, a swell of emotion rising within him. He feels the sting of tears threatening to spill over, and he quickly averts his gaze, focusing intently on the soup before him in fear of starting to cry in front of Jean. He takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady the erratic thumping of his heartbeat, but it feels impossible. Jean made this for him, he reminds himself—he chopped each onion, cried every bitter tear, surpassed all the hate he’d previously professed, all for Jeremy.
Jeremy’s not strong enough for this.
Jeremy can’t take this anymore, or he fears he won’t be able to control himself.
This isn’t just soup. It is a gift, a piece of Jean’s heart served up in a dish with Jeremy’s name inscribed on the bottom. A quiet reminder of all the small, beautiful gestures Jean insists on doing for Jeremy’s sake. Jeremy perches on the edge of a bottomless void, overwhelmed by the truth—that Jean cares for him in ways he can hardly begin to understand. Jean chose him. He said so himself. Time and again, he chooses Jeremy with every chop, every flick of a wrist, every tear—every time, he chooses Jeremy over himself; every time, he chooses Jeremy’s happiness over his principles; every time, he chooses Jeremy’s comfort over his own distress.
Jeremy can’t stand it.
Jeremy feels weak.
Lost.
On top of the world.
Invincible.
Jeremy stares deeply into grey eyes, lost in a sky of clouds, swirling with feelings that render his cage of butterflies useless. Jean stares back at him, but says nothing, and Jeremy’s forced to swallow all the love bubbling up his throat and wash it down with soup.
When it’s time to sleep again, Jean gives him a painkiller and lays down next to him. Jeremy sleeps and wakes up in the early hours of the morning with Jean’s arms around his waist. He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of this, he knows he should put space between him in Jean again, he knows he should pretend this never happened, but Jeremy can only be so strong.
Instead, he presses his back against a strong chest and allows himself to be comforted by the warm embrace. He feels safer than he ever has before, cocooned in the safety of Jean’s arms, and drifts back to sleep.
5.
Jeremy’s sitting down on their new, proper couch, sprawled over the comfy cushions, reciting all the French numbers from one to a hundred by memory, when Jean appears behind him. He’s so immersed in the numbers—soixante-huit, soixante-neuf…. soixante… dix? soixante-dix-un? tsc , no, soixante-onze—Jeremy almost doesn’t notice him, but then he feels the weight of Jean’s stare on the back of his head and stops counting numbers so he can look at him properly, swallowed whole by his presence.
Adjusting his position on the couch, Jeremy shifts around the cushions to make room beside him in case Jean wishes to sit, and gazes up at him in anticipation. Jean, however, remains rooted in place.
“What’s up?” Jeremy inquires, curious as to why Jean’s here when he seemed so focused on his assignments just moments ago.
“Cat called. She said she and Laila will be dining out today,” Jean replies.
“Oh! Cool!” Jeremy exclaims, excited that they finally found the time to treat themselves to a proper date, although he searches for his phone with a frantic edge in his movements. Had she called him, too? Was he so distracted as to miss the sound of her call? Had he missed any other messages? But when he reaches his phone, forgotten by the armrest, he sees nothing, and relief washes over him. He smiles when he realizes Cat had called directly to Jean, instead. There was something heartwarming about seeing Jean use his phone to connect with Cat. Jeremy knew Jean used his phone to message other people, notably Renee, but it felt refreshing to see a change of pace.
“She said we have to figure out dinner by ourselves,” Jean continues, and before Jeremy can say anything, he asks, “Is there anything you’d like to eat?”
Memories assault him so suddenly Jeremy freezes in place, heart going off a mile per minute. Jean hasn’t cooked anything for him—specifically for him—since Jeremy got sick a few weeks ago. Thinking about the soup, about his feelings for Jean, about Jean’s feelings for him, about home-cooked meals and tenderness and onions and care and butterflies and safety makes him so nervous he almost starts shaking. Instead, he grins at Jean, trying to project nonchalance.
“Nothing in mind! I could go for whatever,” he replies, masking his swirling emotions behind an air of casualness.
Jean narrows his eyes at him, but says nothing about it. Instead, he asks, “Would you prefer some kind of pasta dish or a stir-fry with rice?”
Jeremy thinks for a second, but imagining Jean slurping on noodles makes him blush so hard he has to clear his throat and look away from grey eyes. “Stir-fry, pretty please.”
In the corner of his eyes, he sees Jean nod as he makes his way to the kitchen.
Jeremy tries to go back to his numbers, but he’s so distracted by the idea of eating Jean’s food again that he cannot for the life of him remember how to put one and two together, let alone how to say 97 in French. Eventually, Jeremy gives in and rises, following Jean into the kitchen and watching as he navigates through their meal.
Jeremy remembers hearing Jean talk about how he likes cooking because it makes all his worries evaporate, and Jeremy can’t help but feel the same sense of tranquillity wash over him as he watches Jean glide through each step with ease and grace—steps that never made any sense to Jeremy.
There’s something infinitely soothing about Jean’s methodical approach. He slices through vegetables with the utmost care, he surveys the simmering rice with serene patience, and he seasons the meat with neat precision. Jeremy gets lost in it all, eyes never leaving him, entranced and captivated by the flow of his motions.
In what feels like no time at all, surrounded by comforting aromas and the gentle hum of the kitchen, Jean sets a plate of steaming food in front of Jeremy. As he places it down, Jeremy can’t help but smile fondly, his heart swelling with gratitude as he murmurs a quiet thank you.
Jean settles beside him, and they eat in peaceful silence, the only sound echoing through the apartment being the soft clink of their cutlery against the plates. Jeremy can’t help but sigh, pleased. The meat is tender, the vegetables are well-seasoned and burst with flavour, and the rice is soft and fluffy.
“I love it when you cook,” Jeremy praises. He feels such a deep sense of contentment wash over him he doesn’t even notice when he starts to run his mouth. “I’ve told you how delicious it tastes, but I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much it means to me that you go out of your way to cook things I love,” Jeremy continues, starting to feel bashful, tone going quiet and quieter, soft until it’s almost a whisper. “You mean so much to me, Jean. I see how much you care. And I’m so glad to have you by my side. Sometimes, I wish I could cook as good as you can, just so I could reciprocate… just so I could show you how much I care, too,” Jeremy finishes, voice barely a breath, but when he looks up at Jean to see if he understood his rambling, all he sees is a raging storm.
Jean’s eyes glare at him so intensely Jeremy’s first instinct is to look away and hide, but Jeremy meets his fiery gaze head-on. He feels the butterflies escaping all on their own, making such a fluttery mess of his stomach Jeremy almost regrets eating so much, but he could never regret indulging in something Jean prepared for him, so full of warmth and care.
Jeremy feels more than sees as Jean's hand reaches out, fingers gliding softly over Jeremy’s jaw. Jean’s so tender as he touches him Jeremy can feel the butterflies implode within themselves in their effort to fly away, leaving behind bursts of sensation so intense Jeremy can barely breathe, dizzy and overwhelmed. He covers Jean’s hand with both of his, trapping his heat against his face. With a gentle grip, Jean uses his other hand to tilt Jeremy's chin upward and connect their lips. The kiss is soft, intense, all-consuming, and Jeremy burns. He melts into the heat, desperate to touch, and lets go of Jean’s hand to reach for his hair, tilting his head the tiniest bit so their lips slit together in perfect unison.
Jean groans, surging forward, and Jeremy moans.
Jean trails a maze of kisses from the corner of Jeremy’s mouth through every inch of available skin on his face, connecting every freckle, every scar, every dimple, in a constellation of their own.
Jeremy giggles from the feeling, caressing Jean’s hair.
“Didn’t know you liked my freckles so much,” Jeremy teases, smiling as Jean continues to kiss his face, trailing down and reaching his neck, where he kisses Jeremy so gently Jeremy can’t help but whine.
“I am obsessed with them,” Jean says, voice hoarse, and Jeremy’s face burns.
“Jean…” Jeremy whispers.
And Jean whispers back, “Je tiens à toi, Jeremy.”
The confession makes Jeremy’s eyes fill with tears, and this time he doesn’t try to hide them—he lets them fall.
Jean kisses all his tears away, pressing his lips softly against the hollow curve under Jeremy’s eyelids, gliding across his cheekbone, caressing his forehead, and Jeremy does his best to reciprocate, overcome with so much emotion he can barely keep it together.
Time slips by—perhaps it’s only minutes, perhaps it stretches into hours—but eventually, Jeremy hears the familiar patter of tiny paws clicking against the floor. A moment later, Jeremy feels a light weight pressing against his shins. He releases his hold on Jean’s face, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he looks down at Jabberwocky, his tail thumping joyously against the cold tiles.
Jeremy gently reaches for Jab’s floppy ears, caressing the soft fur on his head. “Salut, Jab. Do you need attention? Did we leave you alone for too long? Awn, poor little guy,” Jeremy coos, his voice laced with affection and delight, brimming with joy, but Jean lets out an annoyed huff beside him, drawing Jeremy’s attention.
He takes Jeremy by the hand and firmly pulls him off his chair, guiding him toward his room. “Il est jaloux, le crétin. Laisse-le tout seul,” Jean says, voice melodic and beautiful. Jeremy doesn’t quite grasp the meaning, but the playful tone in Jean's voice makes him chuckle anyway.
Once inside, Jean firmly closes the bedroom door behind them. He presses Jeremy against it, making him forget about Jab as he leans in, distracting him completely.
Hours later, after Jean has traced every single freckle across Jeremy’s face and shoulders with his lips, Jeremy whispers against his ear, “Thank you for the food,” and the small smile on Jean’s face is worth everything.
+1.
It all ends like this:
Jeremy is determined to bake Jean a birthday cake.
He reads through every recipe he can find.
He attends public culinary classes at the university.
He asks for all the help he can find.
He makes a list of questions to their family’s cook, Dallas, and only gets out of the kitchen once he’s answered them all.
He goes through all of them with Cat, and even asks to watch her bake a cake beforehand so he knows what to do once the day comes.
The big day comes.
He convinces Cat and Laila to distract Jean away from the apartment while he is left alone, determined to bake Jean the best cake he’s ever had.
And then….
He burns the batter so badly the fire detectors go off all over the building, and everyone has to evacuate to give space to the firefighters.
He’s so ashamed when he calls Cat he can barely speak, and hers and Laila’s hysterical laughter on the other side of the phone helps with nothing. He knows that by tomorrow, everyone in the whole team will know about Jeremy’s spectacular fumble.
When the firefighters deem the building safe once again, he sends a message to Cat and the four of them (they were walking Jab, luckily) come back to the apartment.
Jean is in their midst, the prettiest Jeremy has ever seen him with a dark blue sweater and a new haircut. Jeremy goes to him, and hugs his waist, resting his forehead on Jean's shoulder. Jean wraps his arms around Jeremy, and Jeremy chuckles, ashamed beyond himself.
“You’re always cooking all this delicious food for me, so I wanted to do the same for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a cake,” Jeremy mumbles, sad that he couldn’t reciprocate Jean’s care, but Jean shushes him, kissing the crown of his head.
He whispers, “Jeremy, c’est toi le plus beau des cadeaux.”
Jeremy is so overcome by his love for Jean he forgets all about the cake.
"Joyeux Anniversaire, Jean."